by Rebecca King
Harriett immediately did as she was told and slid the heavy iron bolt across the door.
“Close the shutters,” he ordered, closing his eyes and praying he wouldn’t pass out. He wanted to apologise to her, not only for his sudden appearance but for the distress he could clearly see on her face and the mess he was making in her kitchen.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling, aware of the loud rumbling coming from somewhere above him. Cracking one eye open, he stared into the feral eyes of a clearly annoyed Harrold, inches from his face, and wondered if the beast would attack.
“Go ‘way,” he grunted, staring the cat in the eyes. Despite his injury, he wasn’t prepared to be overwhelmed by a crazed feline. For several long moments they stared at each other. Hugo wondered if the cat would maul him, but at least the loud shrieking had stopped, replaced by a low, warning growl that was equally as annoying.
“Oh Harrold, shut up!” Harriett snapped, shoving the cat away from Hugo on her way past. “Leave him alone.”
Hugo watched as the wretched beast immediately quietened down, hissed once in clear annoyance, and stalked haughtily out of the room.
Quickly working her way around the cottage, Harriett did as he asked, returning to him in the kitchen to study him closely. Her mind was running over the contents of her workroom and what she would need to help him.
He was soaked to the skin. His dark hair was plastered to his head, water dripping steadily down his lean, ashen cheeks. His black shirt did little to hide the heavily muscled chest beneath. Despite his poor condition, he was still the most handsome man Harriett had ever seen.
Shoving her wayward thoughts to one side, Harriett carefully knelt beside him, letting her eyes roam freely over his prone form, although this time it was more of a visual assessment of his condition. Her measured gaze landed on the tight woollen binding which covered a wound on his upper arm that was steadily oozing blood. From his pale complexion and blood-soaked shirt, he had apparently been bleeding profusely for some considerable time.
“Help me?” Hugo pleaded with desperate eyes that remained locked upon hers. Hugo briefly wondered if this was what it was like to die. If so, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else – or with anyone else. He frowned at the burgeoning feelings that began to form in his chest, but couldn’t summon the energy to analyse them further. Instead, with a grunt, he reluctantly gave himself over to Harriett’s care.
“Your injury,” Harriett murmured, eyeing the black cloth once more, silently asking him for details of what he had been up to.
“I’ve been shot,” he replied bluntly, seeing no reason to try to hide the cause of his injury; she didn’t need to know where and when. The less she knew of how he got the injury, the better. Her next question surprised him.
“Is the shot still in?”
Hugo felt his eyebrows immediately rise. Although a tiny voice reminded him that she was a healer, and had probably seen a variety of injuries, her calm logic amazed him. He could almost hear her analyzing the severity of his plight and working out how best to help him. A new respect began to blossom within him; the lady was clearly calm in a crisis.
“Yes, the shot is still there. Unless it has come out of the back – I can’t tell.” He groaned, unwilling to consider the possibilities without the world beginning to dim. He wasn’t usually squeamish, and had seen his fair share of death and blood loss while in the army, and it had never made him feel sick, or faint, like he was now.
From the steady pool of red gathering beneath his hand as it lay on the floor, Harriett knew that he was in desperate trouble and, from the slurring of his words, realised that it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the blood loss. Urgency suddenly fuelled her movements, spurring her into action.
“Help me get you to the bed.” Her voice was firm and uncompromising. Rising to her feet, she bent over him, physically pushing him when Hugo made no attempt to move. She prodded him, unwilling to allow him to fall asleep until he was on her bed.
She hadn’t bargained on his height though. He was simply huge against her smaller, more delicate frame. Of similar height to the Cavendish brothers, Hugo towered above most men, and was well built and very muscular. She simply didn’t have the strength to carry him anywhere, nor would she be able to drag his dead weight across the length of her cottage by herself. She needed him to help himself a little.
“If you want me to help you Hugo, then you need to help yourself - help me get you to the bed. Get up,” Harriett persisted, draping his good arm around her shoulders and tugging him relentlessly upwards.
With a low moan, Hugo heard her speaking to him through a thick fog that had settled in his head, clouding his thinking. Digging deep into his reserves, he pushed to his feet in answer to her plea but, once there, gasped when the world began to swirl and his knees started to tremble. He hung on to Harriett far more than he should have done, but she was his anchor in a storm-tossed sea and he daren’t let her go. If he did, he would undoubtedly end up flat on his face on the floor, humiliating himself even further.
“God, I’m sorry, Harriett,” he groaned, eternally grateful that she hadn’t turned him out on his ear or, worse, refused to help him.
“Let’s get you to the bedroom so you can lie down, then I can take a look at that arm of yours,” Harriett gasped, ignoring him.
She knew he was doing his best to keep the majority of his weight off her, but he was so heavy. Together they lunged and stumbled through the cottage, bouncing off walls, and careering through the bedroom doorway at the front of the house.
Three large strides took them over to the bed, upon which immediately Hugo slumped with a low groan. He had no sooner hit the cool, crisp sheets than the realisation that he had finally achieved his goal sank in, and he allowed the world to go black.
Turning her mind to her various herbs and mixtures, she carefully unwrapping the rough woollen cloth that tightly bound his arm, before removing his sodden shirt and thick leather riding boots.
Scrunching up her nose, she tentatively removed his wicked-looking gun from the leather holster and placed it carefully under the bed, before removing the holster and placing that under the bed too. It went against all her beliefs to have the wretched thing in the house, but it wasn’t hers to throw out. Hugo had probably used it to protect his own life and, although she may not like it, he would probably feel reassured knowing it was close by. With a shudder, she carefully nudged it further under the bed with her foot, glad to get it out of sight.
She briefly considered removing his breeches, but decided against it. By the steady trickle of blood appearing on the sheet, he was still losing too much blood and that had to be the first thing she dealt with.
Taking a moment to collect everything she would need, Harriett quickly tied her hair up and out of the way, and drew the rickety table closer to the bed, along with the chair. Lifting his limp arm, she placed it over her lap as she sat on the side of the bed. Carefully removing the binding, she studied the raw flesh of the open wound and sighed in consternation. She had never treated a gunshot wound before, and had to dig deep into her memory for the one and only time she had seen her mother treat one of her patients who had been shot. Instinctively, she knew she had the right poultice, but that wouldn’t help unless she could get the bullet out - without causing him any further damage.
Aware that the patch of blood staining the sheets was getting bigger, and he was growing weaker, she wasted no time in cleaning the worst of the blood from his upper arm with the bowl of water before gently dabbing around the open flesh, studying it carefully for any sign of the shot.
She wondered if she had the stomach to do what she was about to, but knew she had little choice. Hugo was in no condition to do it himself, and she could hardly call a doctor. None of the villagers would ever go to her again if she called him in for anything; besides which, Hugo had been shot by someone, and that someone could still be out there looking for him. Until he woke up and told he
r a bit more about who had shot him, and why, she knew she had to keep his presence in her cottage a secret.
Even if she ignored the gossip his presence in her cottage would cause, she couldn’t risk placing either of them in danger.
That left her with the knowledge that, unfortunately, on this occasion, removing the shot, stitching his wound and bandaging him up was clearly down to her. She carefully picked up a small pocket knife she had sterilised and cleaned. Taking a deep breath, she hesitated at the thought of poking the pointed tip into his already bleeding, and undoubtedly sore wound.
“Just do it,” Hugo urged, reading the reluctance on her face sympathetically.
Harriett jumped. She hadn’t been aware that he had woken up and, after a quick look into his clear green eyes, quickly averted her gaze. Her cheeks flushed as her gaze landed on his bare chest, and she tried valiantly to ignore her discomfort at being caught staring at his naked flesh so blatantly.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she whispered, eying the raw flesh of his arm with a shudder. Although she was a witch, she was a healer. She hated having to inflict pain on anyone else, even if it was for their own good. The idea of digging around in his arm to find the shot made her feel sick with dread.
“It can’t stay in there, and I can’t do it myself,” Hugo reasoned. “It’s all right,” he reassured her gently. In reality he wasn’t relishing her digging around in his upper arm any more than she was looking forward to doing it, but he had to grit his teeth and bear it.
Harriett drew a breath, closed her eyes, and sent a silent prayer heavenward that she wouldn’t end up in an undignified heap on the rug. She lifted the small, flat-ended knife and was about to start when Hugo’s voice stopped her.
“Have you any alcohol?” he asked, wincing as Harriett looked askance at him.
“For you? Or the wound?” Harriett asked waspishly, shaking her head. “Do I look like a drinker?”
Hugo snorted and shook his head.
“I could go down to the tavern and ask for some,” she added, relishing the possibility of getting out of the cottage, and away from him for several moments.
Her world had suddenly changed, and she didn’t like it. She needed a few minutes to gather her resolve, even if it was through a trip down to the tavern.
“Now that would raise problems,” Hugo chided, considering the possibility of someone like Harriett going into the tavern and asking for a bottle of anything. Even if they would sell it to her, which he doubted they would, her actions would be subjected to scrutiny by every gossip within ten miles. “I’ll do without,” he murmured, not sure if he was glad that he didn’t have the alcohol to cloud his thoughts.
He lay perfectly still and took the opportunity to study her face while she dabbed at the wound, clearly reluctant. The thick frames of her lashes heightened the sensual draw of her dark green eyes, giving her an exotic look. The rich auburn waves of her hair had been casually tied back into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Even confined, he could see the clear red streaks running through the darker strands that made her hair look more red than auburn. It really was an unusual colour, he mused, wondering if she realised just how beautiful she was. Her nose was best described as pert, and covered in a delightful smattering of freckles that emphasised her high cheekbones and lusciously full lips.
“Ouch!” Hugo winced, caught unaware by the sudden stabbing pain in his arm. He had been so distracted studying her that he had forgotten what she was doing.
“Sorry,” Harriett whispered, wondering if she was going to throw up. She dabbed at the blood congealing in the wound and tried desperately to ignore the sudden churning of her stomach. She flicked a glance at Hugo, who was staring fixedly at the ceiling; the only sign of his distress was the rapid twitching of a muscle in his jaw.
Harriett wondered how he could stand it, and suddenly decided that she owed it to him to get it over and done with as quickly as possible so as not to prolong his agony. Gritting her teeth, she blotted the blood and began to explore with the knife.
It took far too long before she gently eased the round shot out of his arm, and patted the sudden flow of blood that emerged from the open wound. She pushed harder, holding the pad against his arm for several moments, and took the opportunity to steady herself while she studied him.
Sweat had popped out on his brow, and he had gone deathly pale. The rhythmic twitching of his jaw had stopped but his lips were now pinched white with pain. If it wasn’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Harriett would have thought he had died. She knew he had passed out through the pain she had caused, and immediately a wave of guilt swept through her, leaving her wondering if she could have done something differently. Desperately, she racked her brains for anything in her work-room that could help him, but knew that it was useless. Nothing except unconsciousness could ease the pain he had experienced, yet he hadn’t uttered a sound.
Harriett could only admire his inner strength and fortitude. Despite his agony he had made no attempt to ask her to stop, or cursed at her, or shown any weakness. Spurred into action by the realisation that his unconsciousness would ease his discomfort, Harriett hurriedly began to clean the wound. Once it was stitched, she made sure the poultice was applied properly before binding his arm, carefully keeping one eye on him for any sign of him waking up.
She wasn’t certain what time it was when she finally slumped into the rickety chair beside the bed and willed her trembling limbs to steady. She had no idea how she had managed to get through the past few hours, but was only glad that the worst seemed to be over. For now, she needed to change the sheets around him and prepare him some broth to drink.
When he awoke, he had a lot of questions to answer, but until then it was down to her to make sure he had everything he needed to get better. That thought was enough to get her to her feet. Moments later she set a pot of water on the fire to boil, and began to make the broth he would need to help him regain his strength.
She suddenly wanted – needed – to get him out of her home as quickly as possible. For her own peace of mind, if not to remove the danger his presence in her cottage brought her. Given his orders to lock the door and close the shutters, she had no doubt the danger to him was still very real, but unfortunately that threat of danger now included her. In addition to the physical danger, she knew instinctively that this man would pose a problem to her emotional safety if he remained for too long.
She had already begun to wonder how she would adjust to living by herself when he had gone.
Immediately her thoughts turned to her arrival home only the night before, and the loneliness that had plagued her. How quickly life can change, she mused, carefully easing the door to the bedroom partially closed behind her before moving to the kitchen to answer the urgent summons of the iron pot above the fireplace.
One moment she was alone, the next her father had visited and brought with him a closeness that unsettled her. Then Hugo had arrived, and was, for the moment at least, incapable of leaving.
She frowned in consternation, unsure what to make of it all. It was fair to say that Hugo was a devastatingly handsome man, who probably had a horde of females tripping over themselves to vie for his attention, but that didn’t mean she had to be one of them. She was a spinster, who spent her days alone, and was happy that way. Wasn’t she?
“Keep telling yourself that, and one day you may believe it,” Harriett whispered to herself, scowling as she moved the pot to the table and began to peel and chop vegetables for the broth.
If she was honest, she was far from content with her lot in life. But if she had any sense of self-preservation, she had to keep in mind what had happened to her own mother. It was that thought that gave her the strength to bolster her fortitude, and mentally vow to give Hugo every assistance he needed to get back on his feet, before she shoved him out of the door and out of her life once and for all.
She nudged Harrold out of the way as she moved around the kitchen preparing the m
eal, ignoring his annoyed hiss. He was seemingly unimpressed with their new guest as well, but at least he was being civil for now and hadn’t attacked the poor man.
Harriett stood before the fire for several moments, absently rubbing her elbow. It was the soft crinkling of the material beneath her fingers that made her gasp with shock. She stared down in horror at her nightgown, flushing with embarrassment as she realised that he had probably seen more of her than her own mother had! She could only hope that delirium had set in and he wouldn’t remember when he woke up. Cheeks flushed, Harriett quickly crept back into her bedroom, gathered up her clothing and left to dress in the safety of the smaller bedroom next to the kitchen.
As she drew her clothes on, she considered the reluctance he had been unable to hide when he had asked her for help. Clearly he hadn’t wanted to ask her for anything, but she had no way of knowing if his discomfort was because she was a witch, or a woman. Somehow, she considered it might just be both. It made her more determined to consider him less a handsome man, and more simply a patient. She tried to mentally distance herself from him, taking a huge step back and considering the mess in her kitchen instead.
Eyeing the sodden saddle and the pool of blood beside the door, she shook her head. It seemed that her work had only just begun. With a sigh she hefted the heavy saddle into the empty bedroom and began to make the bed up in the small bedroom for later. She placed his heavy boots beside the fire in the bedroom and picked his wet, dirty shirt off the floor. It would have to be washed and repaired before he could use it again, but at least it gave her something to do besides think about the disturbing presence of the very masculine man now lying in her bed. With his freshly laundered shirt drying next to his boots, she filled a bucket and began to scrub the traces of blood from the walls and floor around her cottage.
